


Encore, Encore (Bravo)

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos seeks to find a cause for the strange red mark near his jaw and Aramis is all too willing to aid him in remembering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Encore, Encore (Bravo)

The sting of it has been keeping his mind distracted nearly all morning.   
  
Porthos keeps soothing the red mark with his thumb in constant circles. It’s been there since last evening, but he can’t recall where he’d gotten the damn thing from. It’s a big thing, at the juncture of jaw and neck and stings fairly badly even when he’s not touching it. And, right now, he’s touching it constantly. Absently, as if he's completely unable to let go of it, he continues to smooth his thumb over the bump, thinking that he'll figure it out if only he gives himself time to think about it.   
  
"You’ll only make it worse," Athos chides as they stand at attention for Treville to go through the morning’s attendance. Athos leans forward to give Aramis a glare, leaning back without saying anything else. It's an odd thing, but then again it's not. Athos is usually upset with Aramis for some reason or other.  
  
It's sort of strange when Athos  _isn't_ glaring at one or both of them as if they've done something wrong. Porthos would feel more offended, except that most of the time, he actually has done something wrong.   
  
Porthos waits for the ranks to fall away, catching Aramis by the sleeve. “Hey,” he says under his breath. “You were with me all last night.” Last night, which had been Luc’s birthday and all the Musketeers had drank so copiously that Porthos’ clothes still reek of ale, even though he’s changed twice since then (it’s in his skin and every blast of the hot Paris sun brings it out in his sweat). “Where’d I get this?” he asks, jutting his thumb to the mark.  
  
Aramis’ replying look is incredulous, as though he cannot believe what Porthos is asking.  
  
The wry snort Athos gives as he walks past is twice as suspicious and Porthos hooks an arm into Aramis’, tugging him into the shadows to look at him expectantly, still wanting an answer. It could be anything — maybe the hilt of a blade, maybe someone’s fist, but what he doesn’t expect is for Aramis to lean closer with those sinfully versatile lips of his parted and wet, and then the puzzle comes together. Porthos' memory might be a bit clouded under all the ale, but he can't ignore the sudden swell of desire and the muscle memory of how he leans forward into Aramis' gravity is damning.   
  
If Aramis were to lean in just a bit more, the mark on Porthos’ jaw would fit exactly with Aramis’ teeth and mouth and tongue.  
  
"I don’t remember," Porthos says, stricken. They’ve had drunken fumblings before when the wine and the ale and the brandy (and so very often with the port) to the point that Porthos could draw a map of Aramis' body and all his scars, but they've exchanged very few kisses. Though, to be fair, it’s not exactly a kiss so much as it’s a mark of possession. His hand is fisted up in the fabric of Aramis’ doublet, now, mind reeling and working through what they ought to do about this. "Do it again."  
  
” _What?”_ Aramis asks, laughing with disbelief.   
  
"Kiss me again."  
  
"Here? Anyone could see, Porthos," Aramis chides.  
  
If Aramis isn’t going to do it, then Porthos has never been shy about taking what he wants. He does make sure to get them under the posts and into the shadowed, covered angles of the lower level of the garrison before he frames Aramis’ face with his hands and kisses him so hard that Aramis stumbles back two steps, back slamming against the wood wall and causing the doors upstairs to tremble. Aramis reaches a hand up to his hat to keep it in place as he parts his lips to kiss Porthos back, letting out a variety of desperately attractive whimpers and moans.   
  
When Porthos is sure he’ll remember  _this_ one, he eases back with a self-satisfied smirk, still rubbing the mark on his jaw.   
  
"Are you feeling better?" wonders Aramis.  
  
"Ask me again tonight," Porthos says. "Let’s see if this one sticks in my memory a bit better."  
  
"Ah," Aramis remarks, hand over his heart, "then I shall pray your memory faults you again if this is how I am to be rewarded for such things."


End file.
